


I Like To Imagine Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, M/M, UnderWere Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 14:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a model underwere.</p>
<p>That's not a typo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like To Imagine Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> Note: So earlier today I answered an ask that wanted to know if I could imagine Stiles as a werefox. My answer was that I could imagine Stiles as were boxers (and then I couldn't resist the allure of the pun _underwere_ ) so now we have this, which an anon asked for on bended knee. I should honestly be worried for myself that this idea came easier to me than any of the last ten "serious" fics I wrote.
> 
> Eh. I don't have time to worry about my brain. There's porn to read.
> 
> Enjoy.

You know that saying about gift horses and mouths? Yeah, well, if your name is Stiles Stilinski and you live in Beacon Hills, Cali? Don't _just_ look the gift horse in the mouth. 

Things you should do with gift horses if you're Stiles Stilinski: 

• Count its teeth. Remark on how big, varied, and pointy its fangs are.

• Find the nearest blunt object (which should be your handy-dandy, weirdly magnetized aluminum bat--don't think about this too much; in Beacon Hills, that's just how aluminum reacts--because if you've left home without your bat, you may as well just be wearing a sign that says, "Weak human. Eat me first.")

• Beat the gift horse to death with said blunt object/magnetized aluminum bat.

Now you have a dead horse. There's a saying about those too. _Disregard that saying completely._ Continue beating the "dead" horse.

Spoiler alert, it's probably not dead. It's probably, in fact, a witch. Or Gerard Argent.

Or one of Derek Hale's girlfriends.

Or a tree. In fact, it's probably a _demon_ tree. That Derek once peed on or something.

Fucking _Derek_. This is all his fault.

\--

Stiles found the underwear outside the burnt-out husk of the old Hale house. His disgruntled, bitten-off scream of outrage could be heard for...well, a good fifty foot radius, at least. There was a _lot_ of disgruntlement.

But seriously, they looked _exactly_ like his favorite Hulk boxers--the ones that had a cartoon bubble of, "Go ahead. Make me angry," over the crotch--that had gone missing the previous week. 

So, of course, he thought several very unflattering things about Derek the creeper wolf, went home and beat off over Derek the creeper wolf sniffing his underwear, threw said underwear in the laundry--after using it to lazily wipe up his spunk--and then promptly forgot about the underwear.

(But not, of course, the mental image of Derek sniffing his boxers while he was still wearing them. Some fantasies should be stored in one's memory banks for extended review during Stiles' Happy Alone Time (TM).)

Three days later, the day of the full moon because life in Beacon Hills is full of these unhappy little coinkidinks, Stiles dressed himself in those very boxers--clean and smelling Gain-fresh, thank you--before leaving for the pack's pre-moon festivities in the Preserve. It was as he was approaching the meeting place--the aforementioned burnt-out husk of the old Hale house, that the waist-band of his beloved boxers _bit_ him.

Okay, so Scott gave him a smarmy look and said, "We all get bound-up in our boxers sometimes, buddy."

But bound up, bitten, pinched, _whatever_ , Stiles underwear had never drawn blood before.

Derek had been concerned for .05 seconds before he rolled his perfect fucking eyes and said, "You probably just tripped and got impaled on a twig or something."

Fucking Derek. If Stiles were a psychopathic chick with an ass that wouldn't quit, Derek would be healing him already. With his dick. 

Instead, they all sat around, eating, drinking, and talking until the furry foursome began to feel the pull of the moon and then they took off running through the trees until the only ones left were Stiles, Danny, and Lydia. Danny and Lydia, of course, had a Skype date with Jackson, so they bailed almost immediately.

Stiles didn't mind. He was feeling remarkably relaxed and he'd rather pluck his eyeballs out, shove them up his ass, and have an underaged girl with poor self-esteem suck them back out* than talk to Jackson. Jackson's a dick.

Thinking about Jackson being a dick made Stiles think about dicks in general, and limp ones specifically, until he was just a floaty sort of consciousness whose only purpose was to gently cradle dicks. It seemed like a lovely life goal for a horny young man in the prime of his burgeoning bisexuality. He'd like to cup balls too. Not too tight, because they're delicate, but just kind of...hold them. And if he could mold himself to the perfect set of ass cheeks, well. That'd be lovely.

He couldn't really help it that the cock, balls, and ass cheeks he was thinking of were Derek's. If there was one thing you could say for Derek and be 100% correct, it was that he was a perfect ass.

Right about then, Stiles realized his floatiness was sort of all-encompassing. He was thinking of Derek Hale's genitals and _not_ reaching for his cock, which would have been worrisome except he couldn't seem to hold on to worry.

He couldn't hold on to anything.

He had no hands. He had no...anything, except a fluttery, loose-legged feeling, and the soft fresh scent of Gain only vaguely overlaid by horny teenaged boy.

Stiles tried to panic, but found he lacked the capacity for it. 

\--

When Derek got back to the clearing after his run, he grimaced down at himself. At some point in the night, he must have decided to take a swim because his jeans were completely soaked and the material was starting to chafe in ways no amount of werewolf healing could help. 

So when he saw Stiles' underwear lying in a heap on the porch of his old house, Derek didn't really question it too hard before giving them a sniff-test--Stiles was a teenaged boy; teenaged boys weren't exactly known for their healthy hygiene habits--

(it had nothing to do with how fucking delicious Stiles smelled, all musky and human and _wanting_ )

\--and shucking out of his own clothes in favor of sliding the incredibly soft boxers up over his hips. They were slightly too-small, but they cupped him just right in all the most perfect ways. It almost felt like ghostly hands were lovingly cradling his balls. His cock had never fit so nice and snug inside his own underwear, and god, the way they squeezed his ass should be illegal. All that plus the strong whiff of _Stiles_ that was just imbedded in the material?

Derek was half hard already. If Stiles wanted to complain about these underwear being too binding, well. Derek would happily take them off his hands.

And then help measure Stiles for new ones because Derek was no slouch in the dick department and if these bound Stiles...well. He must be enticingly-- _ass-ruiningly_ \--huge.

No, Derek's mouth wasn't watering. 

Much.

\--

Stiles had been sort of sleeping when he'd felt someone pick him up. The sensation of a body sliding into him would have made him shiver all over if it weren't for the fact that he didn't have muscles. And then he was being adjusted over the most beautiful cock in the history of the male anatomy, fitted around deliciously plump balls, and smoothed over a mouth-wateringly (if he had a mouth) perfect ass. An ass so perfect that it could only belong to one person. 

It was at that moment of realization that, somewhere on the edge of the earth, the full moon sank completely over the horizon, plunging the world of Beacon Hills firmly into the new day.

It was also at that moment that Stiles began to shift from a cotton/poly (with 5% or less spandex) blend back into flesh, blood, and highly fragile bone.

When he was once more completely in his own body, he found himself staring up into Derek Hale's very startled--but still very human, thank Cthulhu--eyes. Gently slipping Derek's left nut from his mouth and removing his hands from _that ass_ , Stiles cleared his throat and said in a voice that still sounded a bit thready**, "I can explain."

Derek blinked once, which Stiles figured was either a sign of his full mental collapse or that Stiles should get to the explaining portion of the morning's events. 

"So remember last night when I said my underwear bit me and you assholes mocked me? Well, congratulations on being wrong. Again. I'm now an..." It was Stiles' turn to blink, his mouth dropping open in an O of perfect universal alignment. "I'm an _underwere_ ," he breathed.

\--

If your name is Derek Hale and you live in Beacon Hills, Cali, you were probably raised with a whole set of cliched sayings that only born werewolves would get. 

One of them would probably be something like, "Don't become too attached to the boxers you find the morning after the full moon because they'll turn out to be the shape-shifted form of the annoyingly delicious teenager you've been lusting after since before it was legal to do so."

"And while you'll gain a delightfully energetic boyfriend out of the whole deal, you'll only get to wear them once a month, they'll ruin you for all other boxers, and they'll have an annoying tendency to bite you when he's angry."

"But at least they don't try to kill you. Which, all things considered, is kind of a pleasant surprise for you."

**Author's Note:**

> * Almost word for word what a batshit fan tweeted at Dylan O'Brien.
> 
> ** PUN!! (I denied myself the pleasure of cotton-mouthed. You're welcome.)


End file.
